The Secrets of a Killer
by anniebethchase
Summary: Cato and Clove's lead up to the games. Includes lots of Clato moments - hope it's not too mushy!
1. Chapter 1

**So this is the first fanfic I've tried to write, so it may not be that good. But read it and see + ****PLEASE REVIEW! **

'This is it', I think to myself, as I slowly but cautiously ascend the old, cobble steps that lead up to the stage. I certainly don't want to make a fool of myself now by falling over. Embarrass myself in front of the whole district. In front of the trainers. And the Capitol. And the other tributes. This evening, this very moment will be broadcast in front of the whole of Panem. I can't look weak now. I must look calm, excited even. I must look cunning, to intimidate the other tributes when they watch the reaping later tonight. They are probably worried about the tributes from Two already, before they've even seen our faces. If I were them, I would be. When I reach the top of the stage, I look directly at the nearest camera, and narrow my eyes, so I appear to be scowling at the other tributes. Those selected from One, Two and Four are traditionally known as the Career tributes, and an alliance is usually formed between us before the games even begin. I dread to think what arrogant, selfish partner's I will have to put up with for the next few weeks. When we get into the arena, I must kill them as soon as possible. I figure I must look quite convincing with my scowl, because the cameraman's expression is horrified. I think he's scared of me. It's quite comical actually, and I try not to laugh. I've never made anyone particularly afraid of me before, at least not that I've been aware of. It's not in my nature, being scary. That's why I've never really felt at home in District Two, as most of the adults spend their lives wishing that they had been chosen for the games. They see nothing wrong with sending their children off to their imminent deaths. In fact, they encourage it. When we reach twelve years of age, they send us to train at a place called The Academy. The Academy isn't a friendly place at all. You have to be tough if you want to make an impression. They do not like weaklings, or the friendly ones among us. We are sent there to learn to fight, not to make friends. That's what they say. Most of the kids there don't talk to anyone at all, and practically throw themselves into their training. By the age of eighteen, most are lethal killing machines, and know at least fifty different ways to kill a person. With and without a weapon. It's at that age that they volunteer at the reaping, and go off to become tributes in the Hunger Games. We have quite a lot of victors in Two, and the Victor's Village by the barracks is always overcrowded. Most of District Two is taken up by the huge barracks that house the army and the peacekeepers. My district provides the military for the rest of Panem. That's why there is so much order here. No one would dream of stepping out of line. You'd be executed on the spot for sure, even for something as small and insignificant as stealing some bread. No one is hungry here, so you wouldn't have much need to, but I've heard that in some of the other districts people die all the time from starvation and will do anything to get their hands on a loaf of bread, no matter how small or stale. How horrible that must be. Never having a full stomach. Always having to rummage for food. It must be awful. I'm grateful that I live in Two, except for the fact that most of the people here terrify me. The mayor especially. He's a huge, bulky male, of about forty years of age. He has a close-cropped military haircut, as do most of the soldiers and men here. He must be at least seven feet tall, and no one would dream of messing with him. He's not the fun kind of person. I can tell. He stands to attention at the edge of the stage, a few metres to my left. I daren't turn to look at him though. I know I must keep my head forward.

I've been thinking to myself for so long that I don't even realize they've called the boy tribute. Our new escort is gesturing for us to shake hands, and we do before I even look up to see who I will be competing against. But I don't have to look at his face to know who he is. I know by the warmth of his skin, the firm grip of his hand. I look up at his head, at his short blonde hair, in a surfer-type haircut. He looks like he belongs in District Four really. I look at his prominent cheek bones, and his firm jawline. Then I nervously look up into his eyes. They are deep blue, like the sea, and are so full of secrets. He's very hard to read, I know that from years of trying to figure out what he's thinking. I never could. But now, he looks so worried, so concerned. But I know it's not about him, it's about me.

_**Cato.**_


	2. Chapter 2

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I don't pay much attention to anything in the next hour, which is allocated for the family and friends of the two tributes to say their goodbyes. I receive more visits than I anticipated, with almost everyone I know coming to say goodbye. They all seem happy. Too happy. I wonder if this is what they had planned all along. A way of getting rid of me. I never did fit in with them, but whose fault was that? Surely not mine. My mother and father have always told me how proud they are, and that all of my hard work will finally pay off. That isn't true. I never wanted to go to The Academy, but all of my brothers went, and none were chosen to compete, so my parents thought they'd take their chances with me. I didn't put in any hard work at first, in protest of me being sent there against my will. When they told me that I had to go to The Academy, I had spent weeks kicking and screaming at them in protest. I hated the thought that they were training me to kill other children. Innocent children. Just like me.

In my first few months there, I found that I had no skills at all. I couldn't wield a sword, I wasn't strong, and I was awful at archery too. The trainers and the other students despised me. They thought that I was making a mockery of them, and the trainers would constantly tell me that I was no good at anything. I couldn't help it, but it didn't help that I had no interest in anything I was doing. The other kids teased me too. I had no friends there, or at home for that matter. They would laugh at my failure, and would purposely make me look bad when an examiner came to assess us. I hoped for months that I would be kicked out as soon as possible. No such luck. The trainers were determined to find me a special skill, and so after months of seemingly endless failures, I found that I had a knack for throwing knives. It suited me too, because I could hit targets that were quite far away, so it was a way of avoiding hand-to-hand combat. This was the only skill I ever worked on, which suited me fine. I no longer had to be embarrassed by my inability to use any other weapon. I would practise my skill every day for hours on end, most days not even stopping for lunch. After a while, I began hitting the bulls eye on each target every time, and because of this, the other students gained more respect for me, and the teasing gradually stopped.

After a while I began to make a few friends, but I think that after most people saw how well I could throw a knife, they steered clear of me. Except Cato. He was three years older than me, but neither of us saw that as a problem. We both excelled in our training, and we would laugh and have fun whilst doing it. Cato was brilliant at everything, and all of the trainers adored him. I know from the looks he got that most of the students were jealous of him. The boys as well as the girls. The boys resented him for the fact that he was so good at training, that all the girls liked him, and because he was so good looking. Even I knew that. With his silky, golden blonde hair that fell half way down his forehead. It was cut shorter at the sides, which made him look older than he actually is. His eyes were as blue as the sea and always appeared to be glowing. I loved Cato's eyes. They were so full of mystery. Full of secrets. Secrets that only I knew. I like this about Cato, the fact that even though I am so much younger than him, we shared everything. I don't think that Cato has many friends his own age, although he is perfectly capable of making some. But he chose me, over everyone else in our district. Chose me to be his best friend. This thought puts a huge grin on my face and I don't realize how long I have been thinking for, because an unknown voice interrupts me from my thoughts.

Find that it's the peacekeeper from outside, saying that my hour is now up, and my family must leave so we can depart for the Capitol. My parents and brothers embrace me, all with tears in their eyes, although I doubt they are genuinely sad about my leaving. Once they have gone Cato and I are herded out of our rooms and into a car, so that we can make our way to the grand train station that sits at the most central point of District Two, right next to the main square. Throughout the whole car journey, I see what must be hundreds or even thousands of adoring citizens shouting our names and waving at us as we pass by. It makes me sick. The thought that they are excited about sending me off to my death. I assume that either Cato, I or a tribute from District One will win, because one of us 'careers' usually do. I can't even bear to look at them, so I keep my head down and play with my silver heart-shaped locket that dangles around my neck. I've decided that this will be my token from my district, which I will be allowed to take into the arena. Each tribute is entitled to one token, but if the gamemakers think that it could be used as a weapon, it will be confiscated. I will never let this happen to my locket. Its value to me is so great, that I want it to be with me when I die. I've never shown anyone what pictures lie inside, not even Cato, and I never hope to either.

We wave our final goodbyes to District Two as we embark the Capitol train, which appears to go on forever, because I can't see where it starts or ends. As I step inside, I catch my breath. It is spectacular. I gaze in awe at what seems to be a dining room. Gleaming crystal chandeliers, luscious velvet curtains, and food. As far as the eye can see. They have everything here, from strawberry cheesecake to chocolate croissants, to some things that I don't even know the name of. I rush across the room and gaze out of the huge window as the train zooms along the track and soon District Two becomes a faint blur in the background. I will most likely never set eyes on my district again, so I try to take in every single detail about it as it fades away, no matter how small. I must be standing at the window for longer than I think, because the sun starts to descend behind the horizon, and the sky becomes a muted orange colour. I don't hear anyone re-enter the room, so when a warm hand descends onto my bare shoulder, I jump a mile. 'Oh dear,' I think, 'If something as small as that can make me jump, I dread to think what I will be like in the arena.' I turn to find Cato, looking down at me with those deep, blue eyes. They look so intense, like he was trying to look right into my soul. I gave him the bravest smile I can muster, and he returns it with one of his signature cheeky grins. He looks flawless in his reaping outfit, although I doubt he put much effort into his appearance. I try to divert my gaze, because I don't want him to think that I am staring at him, taking in every detail about his appearance. It's not just his looks that make people like him though, it's his personality. He's always so happy, always smiling. He doesn't talk much to other people though, only to me. But whenever he does talk to someone, he's so charming, so polite. However I know that for the next few weeks he won't act like himself. He won't be able to in front of the cameras. He can't appear to be nice, he must appear brutal, like a true born killer. He takes my hand, and I jump slightly as his touch, but I grip so tightly that I think that I may have cut off the blood supply in his hand.

I realize how scared I actually am. I am terrified. I need someone with me. Someone to tell me that it will be okay, that I won't die, I won't have to kill. I desperately need someone to be there for me forever. And that person is Cato.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys thank you for those who have followed/favourited this story, I hope you like it! I hope you like this chapter, I don't think it's my best but we'll see. Please review guys!**

We sit in silence at the window. We need no words; we both know what the other is thinking. I suppose that's the only downside to being so close to someone. Even when I want to keep something to myself, I can't, because Cato can read me like a book. He knows that I won't be able to do this, even if he doesn't say so. In fact, he doesn't say anything, just stays next to me on the plush, velvet sofa that sits by the window, and puts his arms around me. I can feel the heat radiating off them and onto back, and it brings me comfort. We sit for what must be about twenty minutes, embracing each other, drinking these perfect moments. We won't be able to sit like this for much longer though, because in a few minutes, Thalia, our escort from the Capitol, will come bouncing into the room in her ridiculous stilettos. She really is ludicrous. She's always so happy, but most of the time I think that it's an act. She doesn't really want to be here, with us, but she must keep a positive attitude in an attempt to keep our spirits up as we are sent off to our deaths.

These moments with Cato make me realize how limited my time with him now is. I must spend it preciously, I decide, staying with him for as long as possible before we are sent into the dreaded arena. I drag my gaze away from the window and turn towards his face, to find that he has been looking at me intently for some time. We look at each other for a while, trying to decipher the other's thoughts, and just when I think that he's figured out completely how my head works, he starts to smirk.

'What is it?' I ask, suddenly annoyed. 'Why are you laughing at me?'

'I'm not laughing at you.' He replies, but does nothing to hide the huge smile that now dominates his face.

'Yes you are! Tell me! Do you find this funny or something?' I demand, furious that he is so happy at a dreadful time like this.

'It's just…you.' He replies, 'It's so obvious that you hate everything. Your facial expressions show how much you openly despise the Capitol. You'd better learn to hide your feelings, or we'll be in trouble when we have our interviews.'

I decide to ignore him for the rest of the night. That will teach him to tease me at a time like this. I turn away from him, and go back to staring out of the window as another district fades into the sunset. Something puzzles me about Cato's words, and I discover that I am so unnerved by them because he is right. I am a career. I must act like I adore the Hunger Games, and can't wait to get into the arena. I must make my face into a brutal mask, in a similar way to what I did at the reaping, when I gave the cameraman a fright with my cold, death stare. Was that only a few hours ago? Surely it can't be. But it was. I was at home, back in District Two, seven hours ago. Not even. So much has happened since then, I can't quite believe it. I give a rather large sigh, and fall back into Cato's arms, knowing there's no point in being mad at him, because our time together is so limited. From the moment my name was pulled out of that bowl, I no longer controlled my own fate. It has been put into the hands of my mentor, my stylists, my sponsors. That's if I even get sponsors. Cato sits and strokes my hair, which is soothing, but I still worry about him. He will probably win the games, but I think of all the tributes he will have to kill to do so. Is he really that brutal?

After dinner, we will watch a recap of the reapings, and we will be able to see our opponents for the first time. I'm not sure if I want to, but I shall have to watch it if I want to get an idea of who I'm up against. Usually, the tributes from outlying districts, such as Ten, Eleven and Twelve, are pretty pathetic because the trade for their districts do nothing to help them at all. They're normally starving, so haven't got any physical power either. This is why the tributes from District Two have such an advantage. Our district trains the military and the peacekeepers, so in the schools that we go to up to the age of twelve, we learn about weapons and military strategies. This helps us a lot before we even go to The Academy. This is the first time I'm glad of my district; without it I don't think I'd even stand a chance getting away from the Cornucopia alive once the gong sounds and the games begin.

Rylie, our mentor, wanders aimlessly into the room, briefly registers our presence, then forgets what he came here for, and wanders back out. I do worry about him. He won the games in the year I was born, in what was apparently the most brutal year in the history of the Hunger Games. This made Rylie a superstar in the Capitol, and from what I know, he has thousands of adoring fans. I don't think he likes the attention though. He just wants to be left alone. Left alone so he can be with…who? I don't think I've ever seen him with a wife, or girlfriend, or anyone for that matter. Every day I see him sitting on a bench in the park by my house, staring aimlessly into the distance. I wonder if he has anyone left. Maybe his family died in the flu epidemic we had a few years ago. I know a few relatives of mine did. My mother suffered too, but it wasn't one of the worst cases. It took a few weeks, but slowly she began to recover. I don't know what I would've done without her, she works so hard to provide for my family, I doubt we'd even be alive without her. The only bad thing is that she was so desperate to have a child compete in the games. She didn't, and her parents were so disappointed, I don't think they ever treated her in the same way after she turned nineteen.

Rylie never really talks to anyone, so none of us know much about him, other than what we gathered from the games. He was fifteen when he won, which is quite young to be a victor, but there have been younger. I don't think he was the most vicious or bloodthirsty, but apparently he's the most skilled fighter District Two has known. I can see how that could be. He is thirty years old now, but is still as strong and athletic as he used to be. He has powerful, broad shoulders and is almost as tall as our mayor, which is really saying something. Thinking about him makes me sad, because if Cato really does win these games, I don't want him to end up living like Rylie, with no friends, nothing to do all day but think about the terrors of the arena. But Cato's strong-willed. He could manage. I hope.

I don't pay much attention to what Thalia tells us over dinner. It's some nonsense about her life in the Capitol and how excited we must be about going there. My excitement about seeing the Capitol is currently on level zero. I don't care about the strange but immensely powerful city that controls us. I've seen pictures of the people who live there, and that puts me off it straight away. Cato and I always used to joke about how ludicrous they all looked. Fancy wigs, sparkly suits, you name it, they wear it. Most of the citizens dye their skin all sorts of colours in an attempt to stay on top of the fashion there. How odious their lives must be, only caring about appearances. They must be so delusional; I suppose anyone who can enjoy the Hunger Games so much they make a celebration of it, must be in an odd sort of mental state.

I tune into the conversation when Thalia starts talking about the Tribute's parade. I know how important this will be, because it will be the first time for us to make a lasting impression on potential sponsors. We will be dressed in a costume that reflects our district, and so most years the majority of the tributes look ridiculous. Not that it matters though, as long as you smile and wave and act confident, the Capitol citizens will eat you up. I dread to think of what get up mine and Cato's stylists will dress us in. Thalia tells us that we will be sent to our prep teams at one o clock, and they will alter us until we look presentable and are fit to see our stylists. I dread to think what they class as 'presentable'. I seem to become lost in my thoughts, so tune out of Thalia's ramblings after this. I focus on Cato, who seems to be paying as much attention to Thalia as I am. He has his plate piled high with food, obviously trying to eat as much as he can before we get into the arena. It's not a bad idea actually, because one we are there, it will be a lot more difficult to get our hands on food. We will have to hunt whatever animals roam the arena, which can't be that hard, and I have such an accurate aim with my knife, I doubt hunting will turn out to be a big problem. My thoughts wander to the arena, and I start to think about what horrors await us, when a harsh, squeaky voice interrupts me.

'Are _either_ of even listening to me?' demands Thalia, her facial expression offended but angry. 'I'm just trying to help you, the least you could do was pay attention!'

The look she gets from both Cato and me must tell her immediately the level of care we have about what she has been saying. So much so that she throws her silk napkin down onto the crisp, white table cloth, and storms out of the room. But before she leaves, she turns and says,

'Fine, you do whatever you like, but you'll regret not listening to me when you have no sponsors and die a long, painful, merciless death in that arena. Then I'll be the one laughing.'

I am at a loss for words. I have never seen Thalia like this. What she has said was harsh, especially because my chances of dying in the arena are so high. But something inside me stirs with fear as I realize one important factor.

She is right.


End file.
